(Written yesterday While at Vanderbilt with my son.)
Jake and I came to Children's Hospital in Nashville today.A routine visit for him; we come relatively often. So I've become relatively numb to the process. Numb from the other parents, bedraggled from days with no sleep, few showers, and feelings of unknown tomorrows. Numb to undetermined illnesses and children who are just starting their journey here.
It was a beautiful day today. Sunny, but not too hot. There was a slight breeze, whispering whatever you wanted to hear.
As Jacob and I walked outside to the rotunda, I heard a desperate cry and deep, deep, painful sobbing. I looked over to see a young woman sitting in a wheelchair, rocking back and forth repeatedly. A man, I assumed to be her father, gingerly touched her shoulder, simply letting her feel. An older woman sitting on the bench in front of them, leaned over and whispered and waited. I tried to tear my eyes away, but I had to know what was hurting this woman so deeply to her soul. At that moment, she dried her eyes and sat up in her wheelchair. It was then, as she stilled, that she slowly looked down to the crook of her arm. It was then that I saw the baby. I stop even now as I write this, recalling to be sure I saw it correctly. But there's no question. The child that she held had a head covered in hair as black as night that was barely bigger than a baseball.
The baby did not move. The baby did not cry.
Again, the mother yelled out in desperation. This time, her father ran into the hospital, returning moments later with a nurse who swiftly wheeled mother and child inside. I don't know what was happening. I created so many scenarios in my mind. I don't know if the child was even alive. But I know there was pain. There was feeling. And my numbness to it all was subsiding.
I could suddenly see all that I'd walked by just moments before: a man, sitting in the waiting room, trying to stay awake, but losing the battle again and again; a woman crying in a corner, comforted with prayer by a hospital volunteer; the child in a hospital robe, still connected to an IV & pole, out for her one walk of the day- choosing to see the train instead of the fish this time; the family of five, strolling slowly through the common areas for the first time, as the hospital volunteers show them the "nice" aspects of this place of uncertainty.
I could suddenly see that what was a routine visit for me, still stirred fear in my child. My "strong, little boy" was actually frail and unsure. The last time he'd been here, they'd drawn 4 vials of blood without warning, setting off a chain of events that included vomiting in the car throughout the four hour ride home, and a midnight trip to the ER. The last time he'd been here, his neurologist said he'd have to do it all over again in three months.
Today is three months.
And here we are.
For us though, the news is good this time. His surgery was successful. He is sleeping through the night, in his own room. He's not having seizures, not sleep walking, not suffering from leg cramps and is still gaining weight. The next step is to start backing off of some of his medications over the next year. Good news. So good that even though it's been three months, we won't be drawing blood.
And Jake is thanking God.
Literally.
No. Really. As the elevator began its descent, Jacob started searching the list of floor assignments. When I asked what he was looking for, he explained, "The Chapel."
"The Chapel"
"Yup. I want to go to the Chapel."
So we went to the chapel.
When we got to the chapel, I asked if he wanted to pray for the good news. He shrugged and said, "Sure." I thought that was an odd reaction, considering that he asked me to go there. Still, we prayed quietly together, thanking God for the good news. When I got up to leave though, Jacob walked to the front of the room, to a stand that held forms to complete with prayer requests. I thought that, as he grabbed a pencil, he would write his name and information down and ask for prayer to himself. He wrote for only a moment before asking me how to spell the last name of a church member who had been in surgery just that morning.
Now, it's at this point in my writing that I usually try and tie it all together and say something wise and fitting. But today, I'm at a loss for how to put it all together because the emotion is so overwhelming. As we walk out of the hospital and into the parking garage, I notice that the woman in the corner has fallen asleep, the young patient with the IV has returned to her room and the mother in the wheel chair is being wheeled out - with arms empty. And I am sad. And I look at my "healthy" son, and I am happy. And I am guilty. And in that moment of conflicting emotions, I am glad. Glad not to be numb. Glad to be feeling.
Glad.
For my moment of clarity.
